The Guardian of Secrets

by Jana Petken

  Don Jaime’s other guests had cringed in their seats. Their host’s face had turned a shade of purple, with blood vessels ready to burst all over his bloodied meat.

  “How dare you, you impudent bastard!” Don Jaime had screamed back. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t you dare patronise me! The peasants are starving because they’re stupid, for no other reason. We are the masters because we have the intelligence they lack. If you don’t understand this, you are as stupid as they are and don’t deserve the life that was handed down to you by your ancestors who died for the Spanish empire. Your son Miguel is more of a man than you are!”

  At the time, Ernesto had wanted to bang the pompous ass’s head against the putrid lime-green brick wall, but he was a guest in Don Jaime’s house, and he’d been determined all evening not to lose his temper. He stood up and looked at the faces of the other guests. Most kept their heads down, afraid of becoming embroiled in the argument. The mild-mannered Don Alberto and his son shot him consolatory, apologetic glances that lasted but a fleeting second. None of them would upset their powerful host that night – no one but him. He’d been forced to leave the party in a state of public disgrace.

  “I thank you for your hospitality, Don Jaime,” Ernesto had said as politely as possible. “But I think it’s time for me to leave. It’s quite clear that we do not share the same opinions, and for the sake of the friendship you had with my father, I’ll say no more.”

  “Damn right you won’t,” Don Jaime had spat with such venom that even his other guests had been visibly shocked. “I am a loyal servant of Spain, whereas you have shown us all that your only loyalty is with Russia. I don’t care for traitors in my house. You won’t be invited again!”

  When he’d reached the door, Ernesto had smiled and bowed to the other guests, who’d declined to stand, a lack of protocol that was designed to insult him. He’d promised to say no more, but he couldn’t help himself. Don Jaime had crossed the line of decency.

  “Before I leave, gentlemen,” he’d said quietly but with a dangerous tone in his voice, “I feel I must warn you that unless you open your eyes and your hearts to the lower classes, your way of life will be taken from you by force. You will be left to eat the same grass that they have eaten for centuries. This might be news to you all, but the poor are no longer prepared to wait patiently and no longer willing to listen to the Church telling them to. The stupid peasants, as you called them, are going to become our worst nightmare, and God help us all when they take their revenge.”

  Yes, God and his Church. Ernesto hissedbefore putting his glass to his lips. The Church was the reason for this meal tonight. His daughter, Marta, was leaving them to become a nun and was going to enter a convent forty kilometres away. The distance was not important of course; no, the great distance would be one that could not be reached by any manner of transport. Marta was going to a closed order, where no words were spoken, no laughter was heard, and few nuns ever left before death. The Catholic Church, with all its hypocrisy, was stealing his child, and it would never give her back!

  For as long as he could remember, the Spanish Church had held a power over the country, and in a way, it was even more powerful than a king or government. It governed itself and answered to no man. Its great wealth was a constant reminder and insult to the country’s peasants, who were told in Mass every Sunday to accept their poverty. Even the middle class was repressed in some way or another. The Church’s biggest fear was that children would be educated to a standard deemed unnecessary by the Church, for in their eyes, educated children could discover a way of life that would alienate the Church.

  Ernesto scoffed at the way nuns ruled the classrooms, refusing the average child the right to learn reading and writing and instead doing little more than reciting the catechisms. It was no wonder, he thought, that the literacy rate was so low. He’d never regretted his refusal to send any of his children to such schools. They’d all been privately tutored at home, just as he and his sisters had been, although it still hadn’t stopped Marta’s determination to join the Church’s ranks.

  Ernesto knew that the Church would fight tooth and nail to retain its power over the people. They ruled by fear and by miracles when it suited them, ensuring that ignorant peasants would always rely and cling to its teaching, for they knew nothing else. However, times were changing and so were the Spanish people.

  He’d never been a great follower of the Church himself, but the institution had undoubtedly brainwashed his youngest child, though he’d fought hard to keep her from its grasp. Marta, his sweet Marta, had won the day. She would leave them forever at first light tomorrow, and he’d curse the Church until the day he died.

  Ernesto and Celia had discussed their daughter’s decision at length. Celia had given in more easily to Marta’s wishes, telling her husband that she would never go through with it, and that even if she did, they would undoubtedly win her back after a week or so. He hadn’t been so convinced, and Celia’s easy acceptance disturbed him.

  He’d accepted long ago that his wife’s journals were sacred. In them, she bore her heart and soul, keeping most every secret thought from him. Ever since 1913, she’d been consistent in her written accounts of the passing of time. Her journals were a true and honest testimony to her life, and maybe her unwillingness to share her feelings was a result of her marriage to Joseph Dobbs, he’d often thought, but he had learned to accept that her most intimate thoughts were locked inside her journals and not with him.

  Ernesto admitted now that he had not been honest with Celia either, but in his defence, it was because he didn’t want to tell her the full measure of his objections, for she would only worry herself to the point of distraction. He believed that he had grounds to worry, for if the republicans, communists, or even the Popular Front movement gathered any more support for their hatred of the Catholic bishops, they would take their revenge on all churches and clergy, including nuns in a closed order.

  Ernesto looked at the most recent photograph of Marta. Marta, sweet-tempered, ideological, and full of love for God, would never sustain an argument. He would speak to her after dinner, not during, as he had promised not to. He would give her all the reasons why she shouldn’t join the ranks of the Almighty, and by the time he had finished with her, she would have her small measly bag unpacked, with her belongings back in the cupboard where they belonged!

  Marta’s childhood days had mirrored those of María’s. They cycled together and rode their horses with the same spirit and courage. They were educated in languages, literature, and the arts; and he never once tried to hide the Church from them or speak ill of its policies. He had encouraged both of them to attend Mass on Sundays and to read the catechism, but as Marta grew, that was all she really wanted to do, and the only place she felt at home was inside the chapel. She had never once deviated from her plan to be a nun. On the contrary, he believed that her determination had been strengthened during her teenage years because of her Aunt Rosa’s urgings and fanaticism. Damn the woman, he thought now. He could only hope that a real miracle would happen tonight and that Marta would one day realise that being a wife to Jesus Christ was not worth giving up her young life for. After all, she could still be the same sweet, darling girl with her prayers and holy sacrifices without having to live in the house of God, couldn’t she?

  He stood at the mirror in the hallway and fixed his tie in place. He could hear the voices of his family already seated at the table in the next room. Celia was there. Her laughter was like the sweet sound of tinkling bells. His heart swelled; it was impossible for him to imagine life without her. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he thanked God for her every day. She had grown even more beautiful with the passing of the years and had a wonderful, positive outlook in life, which at times had given him strength and hope, especially during the dark days after the Great War.

  In 1919, she had returned to Merrill Farm and then come back home to him with a new sense of peace. H
er ghosts had been exorcised, and her nightmares ceased. He had been afraid at the time that she would not want to return to Spain, that she would realise how much she missed England, but that wasn’t the case. If anything, it had reinforced her love for her adopted country.

  He stretched out his hand slowly towards the door handle but then withdrew it sharply; he couldn’t face his family yet. He could hear Aunt Marie’s voice admonishing Celia for something or other. Pedro was teasing Marta, and he smiled at her nervous giggle. He heard Rosa’s voice too and wished she’d stayed in her room, as she was not welcome at his table tonight. This was all her doing, and he’d make damned sure she knew about his true feelings after Marta left them! Only María’s voice was missing. Where was his errant daughter?

  Ernesto paced up and down the hall, waiting for the last member of the family to arrive. He would wait five more minutes, and then he’d go in, and as for María, well, he’d have a word or two with her later. He smiled and shook his head.

  María was a paradox. She was a spirited and determined young woman who could be both enchanting and mischievous at the same time. She definitely took after him. She loved everything about the world of agriculture and like him was up at dawn during picking season, working as hard as the rest of them. She could wrap him around her little finger, and he’d found it almost impossible to chastise her, ever! From a very early age, she’d ridden with him through the groves, just as her mother had done when she first arrived in Spain. Her love of nature had grown over the years, and now her only ambition in life was to protect and care for the land that had raised her. She was devoted to that idea just as much as Marta was devoted to the Church. She had no plans to leave La Glorieta, so she kept telling him, and he had already decided that she would be the one to take over the running of the estate one day.

  In his opinion, María was just as pretty as her sister but not as feminine. Her face was permanently caked in red soil, and hair tied in an untidy knot at the top of her head hid that beauty so evident in Marta. Ernesto smiled and shook his head. María often angered her mother by refusing to wear a skirt or dress, preferring jodhpurs, which she wore day in and day out, and he dreaded to think of what would happen if she ever decided to marry. She had a soft lyrical voice, yet she spoke with the forcefulness of a man, with an intellect that made people sit up and take note.

  “Well, it’s time,” he said to himself, looking once more at his appearance.

  It was time to put on a happy smile, time to forget for the moment that Marta, to all intents and purposes, would leave them for a life sentence in a prison without parole. As for María, she’d turn up eventually. She always did.

  María rode with the wind on her face. She screwed up her face, thinking that she was late and would more than likely be punished by all the members of her family in some way or another, and rightly so. But Carlos, her Carlos, had held her in his arms, looked into her eyes, saying what she had wanted to hear for so long now: he loved her! She laughed into the full force of the wind. It had taken him long enough, but he had finally said the words.

  She jumped off the horse whilst it was still moving and handed the reins to a stable boy. If she hurried, she’d only be a few minutes late for dinner, which wasn’t so bad, was it?

  The long formal dining table was set with the finest dinner service: silver cutlery and crystal glasses only brought out for special occasions. Celia sat at the bottom end of the table, flanked by Aunt Marie and Marta. Next to Marta, Miguel shifted impatiently in his seat, trying to ignore Rosa’s customary prayers before every meal. Pedro sat opposite Miguel, and both men smiled in a conspiracy of cynicism at their Aunt Rosa’s Latin ranting.

  “Here you are! We were wondering where you’d got to,” Celia said to Ernesto when he went in to face the rest of the family.

  “Sorry, darling. I had a few bits and pieces to finish off,” Ernesto told her.

  “We’ll forgive you, then … No sign of María yet?”

  “No, but when is she ever on time for anything?”

  Pedro shook his father’s hand, kissed his cheek, and then laughed. “Take one guess where she’ll be.”

  Aunt Marie said, “She’ll be looking in her wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. Celia, you did tell her not to come to the table with those silly trousers on, didn’t you?”

  Celia laughed and shook her head. “Yes, I did, but I think you’re right. She’s probably pacing up and down her bedroom right now, mumbling away to herself. I told her this morning not to come down unless she was properly dressed, and she’s probably wondering just about now if her trousers are more important than her hunger.”

  “Oh, Mother, Aunt Marie, leave her alone,” Marta said with a laugh. “We all know well enough that she would rather sit in her room all night than wear a dress, but she won’t, not tonight. So just be patient. She’ll probably stun you all when she makes her appearance. Anyway, it’s not her clothes she’ll be worried about. It’ll be her hair. It will take hours to get the dirt out of it.”

  “Are you talking about me?” María asked Marta, sweeping gracefully into the room.

  “Yes. What have you been doing all this time?”

  “I’ve been getting ready for the party. What did you think I was doing?”

  “Fighting with your hair,” Marta told her truthfully.

  María’s dark auburn curls fell softly around her face and down her back. She wore a hint of powder and lipstick on a face filled with stunning features and a mouth framed by full bow lips. She wore her best dress, an emerald green silk which was both feminine and delicate, and it clung to her slim but rounded hips. Her eyes were sparkling with hidden secrets, her lips were full and pouting from Carlos’s kisses, and she was happier than she had ever felt.

  “What if I was? It’s the final result that counts.”

  Celia looked around the table at the happy smiling faces of her family. In the last twenty years, she had watched her family grow and had felt blessed and happier than she’d ever dreamed possible. Her journals, neatly catalogued and piled in her old packing trunk, told her story. She had now filled twenty-three tightly bound books with chronicled details of her life, and she had left nothing out, not even the most gruesome details about her marriage to Joseph Dobbs, long dead and, for the most part, forgotten.

  She read them often, not wanting to forget anything: the day the girls’ first teeth appeared and the day they took their first steps, the day Miguel went off to study in England, and her own trip to Merrill Farm. She had also written about the day she told Pedro all about his real father and how much relief it had brought her. She told the girls about Joseph Dobbs too. That, unfortunately, had been forced upon her after Pedro and Miguel fought about something silly, and she remembered her anger at the time. Pedro had wanted Miguel’s tin soldier. Miguel told Pedro it was his, along with everything else at La Glorieta, because Ernesto was not Pedro’s father. Therefore, he had no right to anything. The girls, curious, had subsequently asked her why Pedro had a different father from them.

  She now looked across at Marta and felt the tears well up in her eyes, but she couldn’t stop them. Her little girl was not suited to a life in a convent, nor was she strong enough to endure the hardships of a religious vocation in a closed order. Her heart was breaking, but she could nothing to stop that from happening either.

  Celia’s eyes were drawn to Ernesto, and he smiled at her. She was proud of the way he was concealing his anger. He was trying to be strong for the rest of the family, but she knew that he was suffering terribly, and that after tonight, they’d have to be strong for each other.

  Ernesto, quiet and thoughtful, studied Miguel’s stony face, which was attempting to hide his displeasure. Miguel didn’t want to be there tonight, he thought, knowing his son well. Miguel hadn’t even greeted him properly, didn’t stand up or shake his hand. He guessed that the only reason he had come at all was because he knew he’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t make the effort.

&nbs
p; “So, Miguel, how is life in the city?” Ernesto asked him, attempting to make an effort too.

  “Oh, you know, lots of talk, lots of rumours as usual. No one knows whom to trust any more. Personally, I think it’s only a matter of time before this whole country blows itself up.”

  “Miguel, please! Not at the table,” Celia scolded.

  Rosa finally spoke. “Trust in no one but God.”

  María giggled. Marta nodded her head in agreement, and he knew that Celia kicked Miguel’s leg under the table.

  Ernesto’s frown deepened. Time to change the subject, he decided, before Rosa burst into prayer, or worse, before she forced them all to pray with her!

  “Right, now that we’re all here, I think it’s time to make the toast to our darling Marta, who will leave us tomorrow for her chosen life.” He smiled, but he felt himself choking on the words. Celia held his hand. Aunt Marie held María’s, and Pedro and Miguel concentrated on their glasses of wine. Marta beamed with pride, and Rosa’s fingers gripped her rosary beads to her breast.

  “Marta,” Ernesto said with a catch in his voice, “find happiness and fulfilment in your chosen life. Walk towards your destiny, finding a path that’s as smooth as glass and as straight as an arrow, and may God and his blessings fulfil you and bring you joy.”

  He stopped talking, lifted his glass, cursed God to himself.